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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26403151">i’m not alone (it’s just me &amp; your ghost)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/introvirtued/pseuds/introvirtued'>introvirtued</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>me &amp; your ghost. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Background Dark Sides (Sanders Sides), Borderline apathetic Patton, Child Abuse, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders &amp; Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Are Twins, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, First Time, Human Morality | Patton Sanders, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Ivan is a shitty parent, M/M, Morality | Patton Sanders-centric, Multi, Original Character(s), Out of Character, POV Morality | Patton Sanders, POV Third Person, Patton Sanders &amp; Thomas Sanders are Brothers, Small Towns, Smoking, Smut, The Dark Sides (Sanders Sides) - Freeform, The Light Sides (Sanders Sides) - Freeform, Thomas Oberman is a lil YIKES y'all, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Witchcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:21:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26403151</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/introvirtued/pseuds/introvirtued</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Patton looks up from his mug of hot chocolate when the wind rattles the windows in their frames. As soon as he exhales, another leaf from his oak tree breaks off. His eyes follow the leaf’s path down to the dying grass. He grips the mug in his hands tighter, leeching the warmth of the liquid into his hands. The leaves falling from his oak tree is the first grim reminder that winter is coming.</p>
<p>It will be his eleventh in captivity.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Dr. Emile Picani, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Sleep | Remy Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders &amp; Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Sleep | Remy Sanders, Creativity | Roman/Deceit | Janus/Logic | Logan/Morality | Patton/Emile Picani/Sleep | Remy, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Dr. Emile Picani, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Dr. Emile Picani/Sleep | Remy Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Dr. Emile Picani/Sleep | Remy Sanders, Logan/Patton/Emile/Janus/Remy/Roman, Logic | Logan Sanders/Dr. Emile Picani, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Sleep | Remy Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders/Dr. Emile Picani, Morality | Patton Sanders/Sleep | Remy Sanders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>me &amp; your ghost. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the oak trees.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i do not own Sanders Sides.</p>
<p>title is from blackbear's song <i>me &amp; ur ghost</i>, and was a main inspiration for this fic. the characters are alarmingly ooc (looking at you, character!Thomas), but it makes sense, i promise. not beta-read, all mistakes are my own.</p>
<p>FYI, in the m&amp;ug duology, the Sides and Thomas do not look the same. Only Thomas looks like Thomas.</p>
<p>Here are their actors:</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Patton Oberman = Tarjei Sandvik Moe</p>
  <p>Thomas Oberman-Sanders = Thomas Sanders</p>
  <p>Ivan Oberman = Leonardo DiCaprio</p>
  <p>Logan = Benjamin Wadsworth</p>
  <p>Roman &amp; Remus = Leo Howard (Roman has short hair &amp; Remus has long hair)</p>
  <p>Remy = Álvaro Rico</p>
  <p>Virgil = Nick Robinson</p>
  <p>Emile = Lorenzo Zurzolo</p>
  <p>Janus = Alex Pettyfer</p>
</div>enjoy the first chapter.
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Seventy-eight days after he was born, Patton’s father began his quest to plant oak trees around the property. He wandered out the back door of their sprawling 19th-century manor with nearly a dozen oak tree saplings he had bought that day and a backpack that held a shovel and a jug of water. Because it had been the middle of winter at the time, and Maine’s climate starts to become unbearable when the weather turns colder in late September/early October, he layered on a jacket, hat, gloves, and wool scarf to top it all off. He wore jeans and appropriate boots were on his feet. After a storm one day, he spent that whole day mapping out pre-determined routes where the trees would go. A day later he walked out of the manor with the saplings and his other stuff in tow. He pushed a wagon in front of him which contained four buckets of fresh blood and stones of various sizes in a plastic bag. The blood-buckets were tucked away in a secret location - in locked sheds the butler and hired help built near each of the oak trees - until said hired help completed their jobs. Not that they knew what he had put into the sheds. It wasn’t their place to ask the homeowner what he wanted to do with the shed or sheds. They were paid to built and assist, not ask questions. Patton thinks his father prefers everyone he’s ever met to be that way at all times. The whole “<em>do as I say, don’t ask questions</em>” thing fits his image perfectly, like a tailored glove sliding onto his hand.</p>
<p>That mantra by his father is something Patton’s lived by for his entire life. He doesn’t know anything different.</p>
<p>It took his father and the hired help two days to plant the five oaks around the twenty acres of land the property has to offer, but the first tree he planted was put a few feet from Patton’s bedroom window. Patton knows deep down that his father did that task like he has done everything else in his life: with a poised carefulness, unshakeable pride and confidence in himself, and his steadfast determination. His image cannot slip, <em>wouldn’t</em> slip for a second, not even when he was alone at night in front of the newly planted oaks, pouring the blood-buckets onto the ground like some sort of madman.</p>
<p>The only reason Patton knows what he did on that cold winter’s night is because he snooped through his father’s journal when he was twelve. He stayed up most of the night reading it, trying to make what little sense of it he could understand, applying some of the written words to what he knows about his father. He connected a few small pieces of the puzzle together that night, but never the full puzzle. He doubts he ever will put the pieces together fully. Nothing about his life will be wrapped up in a neat, nice little bow.</p>
<p>(He also still doesn’t know where he got all that blood from, or what the deal with the stones was. What the point of <em>anything</em> pertaining to the blood and stones were. Why his father couldn’t just fucking plant Patton’s oaks and completely skip over the blood. He’s too afraid to ask him.)</p>
<p>He tucked the journal back on the desk in his “Quiet Room” while he was sleeping four doors away. He drank a little too much Bourbon that night. The only thing he doesn’t know is <em>why</em>. Why his trees and the blood and the sheds and the stones and the secrecy. The question’s been bugging him for nearly five years.</p>
<p>Patton hasn’t left the property in eleven.</p>
<p>Atop the waste of his birth, the tiny seedling was planted and as it had nurtured him during those nine months, so did it nurture the tree. It grew at an almost alarming speed, quicker even than he did, its roots fattening and digging deep down into the earth as its branches reached up and up and up in an attempt to cradle the sun, the moon, <em>the stars</em>. Nowadays it stands tall, immovable, strong. Nowadays Patton can hardly bear to look at it.</p>
<p>It’s like looking into a mirror.</p>
<p>The tree, like him, is rooted firmly in place. Immobile, trapped by cold, dense earth, forever stuck on the property. (As for the manor itself, Patton’s father inherited it from a dead relative once removed who left it in his will for him. He won’t say who, won’t utter a word about them, or why they did it, so Patton’s given up on asking him.) But the tree is exposed to the elements and the seasons, whereas Patton is just... always cold. He’s seen the other oaks, has been outside the prison that’s disguised as his home and saw how they stood, has seen the leaves rattling lightly in the wind and branches outstretched like arms, but he looks at this one the most. The five oaks are <em>his</em> trees. Not his father’s, nor the butler’s, or the maid’s. They are certainly not Thomas’s, who hasn’t stepped foot onto the grounds in thirteen years. Patton and his brother haven’t spoken in ten. Ten years, one-hundred-and-twenty-two days.</p>
<p>Patton’s one year shy of being an adult - he’s currently seventeen. He had to be homeschooled for all of his academics. Pre-school, elementary, middle, and high school. His father made it clear that he wasn’t going to raise “an idiot for a son”, so he was homeschooled. Those were his own words, not Patton’s. Tutors were interviewed, vetted carefully. The make or break of whether they got the job? These eleven words: <em>“My son has many afflictions. How do you feel about this?”</em> Tutors came and went. Two were fired for no reason, and only a day later they were replaced. For outsiders, the allure of money and actually stepping onto the Oberman Manor grounds were strong. Patton doesn’t blame them. The pay was indeed excellent. If you weren’t trapped on the property like Patton was, still <em>is</em>, the idea of actually going on the infamous Oberman Manor grounds that‘s located miles from the town was an added bonus.</p>
<p>The Oberman's are something of urban legends. And Patton, for one, fucking hates it.</p>
<p>Asides from leaving the house and getting the hell out of this town that Patton’s <em>never actually stepped foot in</em>, he doesn’t know what he wants to do when he‘s an adult. He doubts he’ll go to college, and if he does, it’ll be online classes from home. All he’s known are these walls and the roof over his head and the property and his oaks. The helpers his father doesn’t pay nearly enough to deal with his bullshit also apply. The revolving door of tutors that are no longer needed.</p>
<p>Patton looks up from his mug of hot chocolate when the wind rattles the windows in their frames. As soon as he exhales, another leaf from his oak tree breaks off. Patton’s eyes follow the leaf’s path down to the dying grass where the other leaves lie. He grips the mug in his hands tighter, leeching the warmth of the liquid into his hands in a desperate attempt to stave off the cold - which he knows is impossible. It’s always cold inside the house; and it’s always a hundred times worse during the dark, colder months. The manor is like an icebox; the heating is shit and almost never works. Old house, shit wiring, even shittier insulation. There’s always a fire crackling in the fireplace, lit candles placed strategically around the manor providing light and tendrils of warmth that Patton desperately clings to when he walks past the flickering flames. Patton has to wear layers upon layers inside of his own home. The leaves silently falling from his first oak tree is the first grim, unwanted reminder that winter is coming. The second is thicker clothing. It’s a pattern that Patton knows like the back of his hand, as familiar as the walls of the manor which he also knows like the back of his hand. The first is always followed by the second, the second only ever happening after the first.</p>
<p>It will be his eleventh winter in captivity.</p><hr/>
<p>Ivan Oberman is a very hard man to please. He’s known as the no-nonsense, easily-angered, poised, egocentric, perfection-obsessed, fashionable, <em>untouchable</em> callous man who has both bark <em>and</em> bite, <em>and</em> claws to boot. He is every woman’s “stereotypical intimidating macho man” nightmare and the focal point every man’s hatred/envy in Skarior, Maine. <em>Ivan</em> is the monster Skarior’s children worry is in hiding their closets, under beds, lurking in dark corners of their rooms where the lights don’t reach. He is their <em>fabled</em> monster, the boogeyman.</p>
<p>Patton’s <em>very real monster</em> is just down the hall, or in the living room, or in his Quiet Room, or in the kitchen, or <em>somewhere</em> on the grounds. The grounds are a cage, but its the only place he knows.</p>
<p>Despite being trapped for his entire life, he knows the rumors, can feel them in his bones, knows deep in his heart what they whisper about. The Internet is a wonderful, cursed thing. He imagines the glances his father gets while in town, the sneers. Thomas isn't in town anymore. The freak's big brother skipped town as soon as he was old enough. Hasn't looked back.</p>
<p>The townspeople and the rumors themselves all say that no one hates Ivan Oberman more than Thomas Oberman and Patton Oberman themselves. For all his upkeeping of his image, the grounds where he lives, flashing the expensive cars he drives, playing pretend that he’s the perfect rich man, the perfect father, his own flesh-and-blood sons despise him with every fiber of his being.</p>
<p>(They don’t classify as rumors if they’re true, right?)</p><hr/>
<p>On year thirteen, day one-hundred-and-eight, Thomas comes back to the manor. It won’t be for very long, promises Thomas in a curt, clipped tone. He has a couple work-related things to attend to in Skarior, and then he’ll be gone. Skarior will be in his rearview mirrors in a few days and Patton along with it.</p>
<p>That’s more than fine with Patton. He‘s counting down the seconds until Thomas gets the fuck out of his life. Hopefully, this time, it’ll be for good.</p>
<p>The brothers do not embrace upon seeing each other. They don’t even look at each other as they pass by each other, Thomas entering the living room for the first time in more than a decade and Patton exiting for the millionth time.</p>
<p>And that’s that.</p>
<p>Patton also doesn’t bother to ask what Thomas has done with his life. Thomas’s job, friends, <em>life</em> means nothing to Patton. He could die tomorrow in front of Patton, and Patton? He’d look at the butler and ask him if could drive into town get him McDonald’s with a smile.</p>
<p>He doesn’t mention the expensive-looking band on Thomas’s ring finger when they see each other for the first time in a decade. Thomas doesn’t mention it either. Patton doesn’t congratulate him on his marriage. Engagement? Or maybe it’s a promise ring? Whatever. Why would he bother to waste his breath on it? It’s not like Patton knew Thomas had a boyfriend. Or even that he was gay.</p>
<p>The first time he‘s made aware of it is when their father calls him a very tasteless slur minute three of Thomas’s arrival. His last name legally is - or won't be? - no longer Oberman. It will be/it is Sanders.</p>
<p>And Patton Oberman <em>loathes</em> Thomas Sanders.</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>Because <em>he</em> got out of Patton’s personal prison. And Patton will probably remain here for his whole life. He was born inside these walls, and he’s sure he’ll die within them. If not in the house, then on the grounds.</p>
<p>Patton's fate was sealed a long time ago.</p><hr/>
<p>“Son, will you stop fucking slouching?”</p>
<p>The knife and fork in his hands are cold, polished to perfection by the maid who sticks around despite having to deal with a rich asshole bastard and his sick son, anyway, hovering ever close to the kitchen door just in case she’s called upon, which is often. It’s the first time any of them have spoken since dinner started six minutes ago. There’s no pleasing his father, after all, not really, and Patton knows this. Call it firsthand experience, call it trauma, but that's what it is. The food is always <em>something</em> but just right: too cold, too hot, too fatty, too salty, too seasoned, not seasoned enough. Patton’s shoulders feel stiff, arched forward as they are, the delicate shape of his collarbones clearly visible through his nearly translucent skin, his elbows growing sore from resting on the grand table’s edge.</p>
<p>“Why? It’s not like it's required of me to do it. There’s no one from the outside world here that I have to please.”</p>
<p>Across from him, Thomas stills and looks up from his half-eaten plate. His fork trembles almost unnoticeably in his hand, but Patton’s gotten very good at watching - it’s all he ever does anymore, <em>has been</em> doing for years now - and catches the movement. A little flicker of emotion, nearly as telling as the visible way his brother swallows. Not food; a lump in his throat that their father put there long ago.</p>
<p>Patton averts his eyes and turns them on the man in question. Ivan’s all collected grace, his legs crossed elegantly under the table, regarding his son with a slight tilt of his head, not a single brown strand of hair out of place. “I want to go outside. Past the grounds.” Patton says.</p>
<p>An almost exasperated roll of eyes, the corners of thin lips pulling down.</p>
<p>“How many more times do I have to tell you before you finally learn, Patton? You can’t.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I can,” he bites back through clenched teeth because he hasn’t had anything to lose in years now.</p>
<p>“Not with your… <em>afflictions</em>.” His father has put down his fork, moves his hands in the air like he’s shaping the word with his fingers instead of his lips. He’s not meeting his cold gaze, rather looking down at the feast fit for royalty before them. Like his brother is.</p>
<p>It’s all an act; everything. The food, the silverware, the help, the expensive clothes Ivan wears, every piece of expensive furniture in the house, the perfect up-kept grounds, the expensive cloth covering the table. <em>Them</em>.</p>
<p>“Bullshit. I’ve told you, I feel <em>fine</em>.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re not!”</p>
<p>Patton doesn’t even flinch at Ivan’s sudden outburst, just presses his lips together and waits for his father to collect himself again. Tap a pack of cigarettes on the table and worm a long, boney finger inside. Light up. Exhale. Ivan pops the cigarette back into his mouth after a moment, lips closing around the stick. Smoke as white as Patton’s porcelain complexion, as fragile as his dreams of getting out.</p>
<p>“Your doctor will be here for you tomorrow. We’ll see about taking a walk after his visit.”</p>
<p>“In town?”</p>
<p>Powder blues narrow slightly. Patton’s identical blue stare back unflinchingly. His brother’s chocolate brown eyes - the color of their <em>dead mother’s</em> eyes - are cast heavenwards and to the side, as if by doing so he can avoid the conversation as well as their tense body language. Patton thinks he should try harder. “The property is more than big enough.“</p>
<p>Patton shakes his head and scoffs, makes sure to make as much noise as possible as he pushes his chair away from the table and stands up.</p>
<p>“You can’t keep me here forever, Ivan.” He snaps. If he’s said the words once, he’s said them a million times. “Your madness isn’t mine.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. suffocation.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After his millionth outburst towards his father, Patton retreats to his room and doesn't come out for the rest of the night. He keeps his door locked and ignores the first four of Thomas's requests to talk to him, his big brother. After the fifth time, though, he gets sick of hearing Thomas's voice and that same soft tone, so he pairs up noise-canceling headphones into his phone via Bluetooth, slips them into his ears, and puts a random song on. Turns the volume all the way up, and lays on his bed, staring up at the sticker stars he put on the ceiling when he was younger. Or, rather, Thomas did before he left. Thomas Oberman-Sanders, who Patton hates just as much as he hates his sickness. It's fitting, Patton thinks, that the first time he's seen his big brother in all these years is when his last name changed due to marriage. It's fitting because Patton and Thomas have never been brothers. They aren't brothers, haven't been for a very long time. Patton and Thomas might share the same parents and have similar DNA, have the same tainted blood from an awful bloodline running through their veins, but they are not brothers. They did not grow up together. Thomas flew from the nest the second he graduated high school at eighteen. There is no link between them. Nothing.</p><p>Patton has no reason to love Thomas Oberman-Sanders.</p>
<hr/><p>The doctor comes and leaves again. He’s a spindly man, with glasses that remind Patton of the glass containers jam is stored in and a hairline that has been steadily receding throughout the years, ebbing away, never to be seen anywhere near his forehead again. He’s friendly enough, but he never says the words he wants to hear. He doesn’t make him better.</p><p>He doesn’t make him healthy enough for his father to let him out of his golden cage.</p><p>He tells his brother about it one evening, when he returns home from a long day at work, and they're in the study. Their father and the butler are both out of the manor, getting groceries. The maid had to abruptly leave because of a family emergency. Thomas still hasn't told Patton what he does for work, but then again, Patton never asks. Patton wonders from time to time about Zachary, what he looks like - that's Thomas's fiancé/husband/whatever - and wonders about how they do it. How they keep a relationship alive that neither spouse is there to invest in. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He doesn’t know much about love – how could he - but he’s always bitterly assumed it requires living for the other person, if only a little. Thomas asked him if he wanted to see a picture of Zachary. Patton declined.</p><p>Zachary lives for himself, for his work. Thomas lives to keep his father happy and to keep his poor, little brother company, but only for a few days. Then he'll be gone, expectations of him being a good big brother and a great son to a father he doesn't love will shatter the second he no longer has to keep up that image, and Patton won't feel a damn thing when the door shuts on his ass on the way out.</p><p>They live for<em> each other</em> as much as the pair of black cats that run about the mansion do; when they’re not yowling and rutting mindlessly, they’re hissing and trying to claw each other’s yellow eyes out. It's survival of the fittest. Patton wishes he could leave the property, as the cats can. Every time Patton tries to get close, though, he feels like he's going to vomit. He's seen them but never touches them.</p><p>Apparently, he's allergic to cats.</p><p>“I’m telling you, he’s paying him to make me believe I’m ill. I haven’t felt sick in over two months now.”</p><p>Thomas looks up from the book he’s reading, quietly reaches for his warm cup of herbal tea that's on the coffee table. On a coaster, of course, because Ivan would throw a fit otherwise. Even though he hasn't been to the manor in years, Thomas remembers the shit that's been drilled into his head. Patton has to give him credit for that.</p><p>Patton takes the action as permission to continue.</p><p>“Please, you talk to him about me. I know you do. I've heard you. I’m <em>better</em>. I promise. I want to go out and see more than the same woods over and over again! The same curtains, the same doors, the same furniture, the same rooms, the same fucking paintings. He’s driving me up the walls. If this goes on much longer, before long I’ll be as mad as he is!”</p><p>“Dad's not crazy.”</p><p>They had this conversation the day before: Thomas's quiet defending of their father's madness and Patton's incredulousness over the fact. His pointed looks. He’s giving his brother one right now.</p><p>“He thinks he’s a warlock, Thomas. A <em>warlock</em>.”</p><p>"Warlock?"</p><p>"Male witch," Patton answers.</p><p>Thomas does that thing with his mouth that signals he's carefully considering his next words. He may not have been home for over a decade, but Patton's an unbelievably fast learner when it comes to picking up on body language. He could even hold the world record if he entered in that category. He's like the Flash of understanding body language.</p><p>“Well, you can’t deny that he is very talented with herbs and plants,” he replies hesitantly, and Patton blinks at him, “and I can certainly imagine him flying around on a broom or calling us our pretties, cackling.” The smile he gives him is sweet, secretive, like Patton is supposed to understand it. It reminds Patton of nothing. He doesn’t have memories to connect that smile to. Not with his brother.</p><p>“Don’t fucking joke about it. He already seems to think you believe all that crap.”</p><p>Thomas sighs, turns back to his book, and replies very quietly. “Maybe I do.”</p><p>“Oh for fuck’s sake!”</p><p>He slams the door hard on his way out, stomps the stairs all the way up to his room and hopes the sound makes Thomas pinch the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes.</p><p>They couldn't possibly get it; he’s in and they’re out.</p>
<hr/><p>He’s so lonely, it actually hurts. A nagging pain in his marrow and joints, a sharp tugging at the strings of his glass-fragile heart. He wants to see <em>someone</em> asides from those that live in the manor.</p><p>He wants a <em>friend</em>.</p>
<hr/><p>While Thomas is at work and their father asleep in his bedroom, a half-drunk, closed bottle of Jaeger clutched loosely in his arms, Patton steals one of his brother's black dress-shirts, black dress-pants and similar socks, black dress shoes, and a plain, black tie. He shoves the shoes, socks, and pants inside of a bag then goes down to the kitchen. Patton knows that Thomas won't miss said clothes or wonder where they went - he has more outfits similar the one Patton threw together in his closet. He swipes a cookie from the old-fashioned cookie jar the maid <em>thinks</em> she’s keeping hidden from Patton while he plots his next move. After mulling it over in his head for a few moments, Patton crams half of the cookie into his mouth and ties the shirt that’s incredibly big on him around his waist. He secures the tie around his neck in a loose knot while sliding his shoes on.</p><p>He leaves out the front door but doesn’t go far. Or out past the gates like he really wants to. He may hate his father and brother, but that doesn’t mean the former won’t find out if he left. Mainly because he’s asleep inside of the house. If that happens, Patton’s pretty sure his father would literally kill him. Instead, he walks to one of the sheds, plucking a shovel from its hanging pegs. He slams the door shut and walks up to his first oak, the one that’s near his bedroom window, and runs his fingers along the bark. It’s soothing in a way.</p><p>It takes him a while to dig the hole in front of the tree, but he does. After he places the shovel down, he carefully folds everything. He places the shirt in the center of the hole, then places the folded socks and tie on top of the shirt. He puts the shoes on top of the folded clothes and buries everything. A chill runs down his spine as the temperature dips. He looks up at the sky, taking note of the clouds. It's going to start snowing soon - the first of the season.</p><p>If Thomas inquires about where his outfit went, Patton will just tell him to go fuck himself. It’s an outfit. It can be replaced.</p><p>Had Thomas been around in the last decade and watched Patton grow up, and maybe if he actually <em>had</em> been a brother, he would know that he’s buried some stuff in the yard. Small things no one would miss. One of Ivan’s empty cigarette packets, a candy wrapper, an un-used plastic fork. He even buried a couple apple seeds next to his second tree. They hadn’t grown like Patton had hoped they would, but he liked doing it.</p><p>There’s a lot of things Thomas doesn’t know about Patton.</p>
<hr/><p>"It’s not right, he’s suffering and you <em>know</em> it.”</p><p>"What would you have me do, hm? Send him out there, to face all the <em>horrors</em> of this world? Unprotected?"</p><p>"He’s six months shy of eighteen, Dad!"</p><p>"He’s <em>afflicted</em>, is what he is!"</p><p>"He’s <em>lonely</em>. He needs to go to school. Or hell, even <em>leave</em> the property! To see the outside world, learn how it operates. To see all new sights and smells and physically hold things he hasn’t before. To be with people his own age, not stuck inside these walls with—"</p><p>"Go ahead, Tommy, with <em>me</em>. Say it."</p><p>"…"</p><p>"I’ll see what I can do."</p><p>Voices through the walls. The door to their father's bedroom slams a second later. It shakes the picture frames containing a photograph Ivan took of the woods ten years ago. It was a birthday gift.</p><p>Patton curls his blankets around him tighter and sobs quietly into his pillow.</p>
<hr/><p>His father's taking an axe to his tree. The one outside of his bedroom window. Tree number one. The First Tree. <em>His</em> First Tree. It’s almost comical to see him, in him black suit that clings to his body like a glove fitting a hand and dangerously sleek dress shoes becoming anything less than perfect as chips of wood fly onto them, slightly wobbly on his bent legs as he swings the weapon behind his head, hacks into the bark like the answer to life eternal awaits inside his first tree’s core.</p><p>Patton watches from his closed bedroom window as he fights off tears, wondering how the fuck this is going to help him. Help <em>any</em> of them. Is he doing this to punish Patton? Is this because he spoke out in front of him, in front of his brother? Maybe. He wouldn't put it past him to something as petty as that.</p><p>One time, he sent Patton to his room without dinner when he spilled a cup of grape juice on the old white tablecloth. He was five.</p><p>When he’s chopped a considerable amount of bark away, has slashed and hacked at the stem, he wrenches a big chunk of wood loose and drops it in the wheelbarrow he’s brought for the occasion. Patton's heart aches and his fingers clench. He exhales. A rattled breath. It’s not fair. That’s <em>his</em> First Tree! He goes to that one a lot because it’s so close to him, and the others aren’t as close by. He’s watched his First Tree grow! Why is Ivan cutting it down like that? Doesn’t he know how important Patton’s trees are to him?</p><p>Ivan hasn't unearthed the clothes he buried there in the morning. He <em>definitely</em> had to see the packed dirt covering the hole. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the otherwise unmarred landscape. He doesn't care. Patton doesn't know how to feel about that. Not now, any way.</p><p>Patton watches him place the axe in the wheelbarrow, pick it up. The wheels squeak slightly as he moves. Patton steps away from the window and lays on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and barely manages to fight off the scream that’s itching at his throat.</p>
<hr/><p>They aren't Logan, Emile, Janus, Remy, Remus, Roman and Virgil when they first meet him. That comes later.</p><p>They are <em>the help</em>. They are the guard dogs - the attack dogs, the cooks, the cleaners, the <em>assisters</em>. (The butler and maid were fired four days before Patton met them.) The servants who will bend particularly to every will of Patton, who will come when he calls. Ivan tells Patton that Roman and Remus are identical twins, however, Remus has long, chestnut dark brown hair that falls down to his shoulders. Roman's hair is a few shades darker.</p><p>“What am I supposed to do with them?” He eyes the boys - Logan first - from his seat on the large divan. Wary, as if any minute he’s going to sprout another head, another mop of pitch-black hair. He has his hands clasped behind him, his back straight as an arrow, legs spread slightly apart, knees pointed slightly out towards the walls. Solid build, strong shoulders. He looks absolutely immovable. Like a statue. </p><p>The kind of posture his father loves to see in men. <em>The Alpha male stance</em>, he once called it. He can tell he does; he’s practically glowing as he turns his attention back on Patton.</p><p>“You’re supposed to let all of them follow you around. Protect you. They've been best friends since elementary school - packaged deals and all that." He adds. "I couldn't hire just one without hiring others, in, too.”</p><p>“Follow me around where? The bathroom? The kitchen? To my trees? To the edge of the Northern wood and back again?”</p><p>There’s a slight tilt to his father's chin as he swallows the retort Patton just <em>knows</em> he really wants to give to that question, but can't in front of company, and manages a weak smile. The seven boys stay silent - none of them have spoke a word. They are observing him. Based on the expression on his face, Emile seems to be... the softest, kindest one of the bunch. Logan's intimidating gaze makes Patton want to hide behind the couch until he stops looking at him like that. He's the most serious one of the group. His necktie and glasses seem to signal that, too.</p><p>“To the edge of the Northern wood and back again… for now. Once you’ve seen the doctor and he approves… perhaps you may venture past the property lines under their supervisions.”</p><p><em>Under their supervisions</em> are three words he couldn’t care less about, because the only one that really matters has been uttered. He'll be able to go past the woods... eventually. But he'll be <em>outside</em>. He’ll be allowed <em>past</em> the property lines, too.</p><p>He nearly springs up, unable to keep the excitement from showing on his face. Where his father is as tough to crack as marble, he takes after his mother. From what little he can recall, and from what Ivan has said about her, she was always an open book, too. Right up until her pages closed forever, slammed violently shut with abrupt hands. A bank robbing, a good woman in the wrong place and at the wrong time.</p><p>His father calls it a weakness. All it does is convince Patton even more that his mother didn’t die from a gunshot to the heart; she was already slowly being crushed to death, suffocating under the weight of a man like Ivan and all his desires and expectations and machoness.</p><p>It’s hard to live in someone else’s shadow, especially when said shadow reaches as far as his father's does. It’s hard to exist solely to keep a person happy.</p><p>“Come with me,” he tells the boys, and they rise from their seats at nearly the same time. Logan's mouth is set in a hard, thin line as he moves towards Patton. The others remain where they are, although they do look around at each other, then to Patton.</p><p>Patton ignores the butterflies that break out his stomach as the boys look at him, and Logan's ice-cold hand on his shoulder. A greeting, Patton supposes.</p><p>His touch causes a fire to burn inside of his belly, but Patton finds he doesn't mind.</p><p>In fact, he even welcomes the feeling.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Skarior = the town.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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